July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
I. 23 January 2010
I spent the year learning to live without you.
I braced myself for ice breakers asking how many siblings I had,
for moments when someone would call me by your name,
for the times when facebook told me I hadn’t communicated with you in awhile,
for when I heard “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” or saw gummy peach rings,
for Burberry scarves, Dracula, and passing references to typography,
and I would weigh that moment against the reserve of tears and the reserve of my heart.
Today: Rivulets of tears streak and stream “dramatic black” mascara and
“smoky brown” eyeliner betraying…
Last year, you and Mom took me to the mall for this makeup, for a professional look.
You were the one who told me not to wear yellow,
who made me try on strange pants and shirts that I bought—
You were the artist whose eye I borrowed when arranging, when making cards.
Twenty-one years and three hundred-fifty days, you were here.
Three hundred and sixty-five days later, I have come to realize
my tears are not grief—no, they are separation anxiety,
a different sort of salt that forms as unnamed sighs are uttered to Heaven.
Until we meet again–
II. April 4, Resurrection Sunday
My mother called early on a January morning last year:
Where are you right now?
I was on the couch, about to leave for work.
You didn’t watch the news, did you?
There was a car accident victim from our town—I saw the ticker on the screen.
It’s your sister; she didn’t come home—she won’t be.
I threw my cup of yogurt in the trash and spilled my tea in the sink.
We know where she is.
I raised my head to the ceiling, invoking giving and taking and blessing.
My mother called last week:
Where are you right now?
I was planning lessons, reading emails, folding laundry.
You didn’t hear the news, did you?
My grandmother came up from Florida; diagnosis: multiple myeloma.
She won’t be coming home.
She is living with my Aunt Lisa, here in Massachusetts, indefinitely.
We know where she is.
I raise hope: she has a good doctor, and we saw her Easter weekend.
Still: I want to lose my phone.
III. June 29
When Mummu, my grandmother, had her own house in Massachusetts,
she always had flowers:
roses, dahlias, daffodils, tiger lilies, and poppies, lining the front yard,
along the edges of the back yard, and in a flower bed around a boulder,
the site for family photos, cousins perched on the granite, between blooms.
Before Mummu left to live in Florida permanently, she gave Myja, my sister,
a paper bag of bulbs that yielded grapefruit-sized blossoms and cast a heady fragrance.
Myja took a picture of herself grinning next to the circular cloud of petals.
When Mummu lived in Florida, she always had flowers.
After a hurricane blew through, I called to check on her.
She said she was fine—the electricity would be out for three days.
She and her older Finnish friends were cooking over sterno.
All was fine, except for her ruined rosebushes.
Now Mummu is back in Massachusetts, resting on the couch at Lisa’s,
accompanied by a black cat and a vase of supermarket flowers that I brought,
and the other bursts of color and petals, offerings from her other callers.
IV. October 24
I wish I was past the inevitable;
I am forced to carry clumsy, boxy uncertainty, jumping when the phone rings.
I whisper a greeting and my heart pounds at the tentative “So…”
on the other end of the line.
There is that line, between me and my phone, and other lines as well:
one from my phone to everyone,
one from me to her, and
one from me to Death.
Death plucks at the string between me and her now and then, a bassist tuning
the low resounding note, ready—
not proud, but bound to remind me that he slips in when he pleases,
leaving indelible memories of botched final lines and greetings:
“I’ll talk to you on Friday; I have to get some work done.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day”
“It was good to see you.”
or, asking once it’s over, “Did he get to see my card before—“
swallowing back the notion that the shade, the spirit was ready to split from the body.
And so I sit, waiting for the inevitable.
I refused to be cheated by a poorly made final greeting,
but I will be robbed of peace with every call and conversation
that begins with “So…we’re still waiting.”
V. November 8
The waiting game is over
VI. November 14
I hum the refrain of a Five Iron Frenzy song: “We are blessed./ We endure.”
Vaguely familiar older faces blink back tears and offer: “Sorry for your loss.”
I shrug. “It was all for the best.”
I sit on the front pew, a wooden creaky structure,
listening to cousin Eric’s wife play hymns on the organ.
“It is well, it is well with my soul.”
The pink casket is front and center.
I resolve to remain a stone, like the monument we will be going to on Forest Hill,
the smooth façade already carved with her name and “Beloved Wife.”
I attribute the retrieval of tissue from my cardigan to congestion—not Emily’s eulogy.
As we intone “I come to the garden alone,”
I stifle laughter at the quivering vibrato of the soprano voice behind me
reaching for Heaven itself with her absurd vocal cords.
There is no fear in Death.
The burial is a strange formality—aunts and cousins demur sitting in the
graveside seats by the green Astroturf and brass rails lining the hole.
A few words, the distribution of pink roses, and we depart for
a deli platter, an arrangement of fruit, church basement coffee, punch,
chicken salad on rolls, and cake.
I hum: We are blessed. We endure.
–Mia L. Parviainen
Mia Parviainen teaches high school English and creative writing.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Jack Kerouac Dreamed of the Dharma
Jack Kerouac dreamed of the
Dharma,
All doubledy-clutched,
And rolling
At about a hundred and
Ten miles
Per hour,
You unnerstand,
In a nineteen forty-seven Dodge coupe;
All the way across the vastness of the
Great Plains
And up the Ohio Valley
It would come roaring into Manhatten
Like a
Drunken Denver cowboy,
With his wages burning a hole in his pocket;
But the Interstates left
The Dharma stranded like
An ancient alcoholic
Hitchhiker
In a small room
At the Wagon Wheel Motel
Near
Cuba, Missouri
On what used to be Route 66.
Aw, Jack Kerouac is dead, anyway
And the Dharma never really
Caught on
With the American public
so maybe its just as well.
That he failed to beat
Those particular odds;
Sometimes
Death is enough.
On Drinking Alone
If God is ever present
Then no one drinks alone.
I’m not sure if that’s a comfort
Or a cause for alarm.
I guess I’ll leave the theological
Ramifications to the experts.
Cheers,
Lord
–jerry o’bannion
Jerry is a retired Engliah teacher who continues to write poems against his better judgement.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
I made spaghetti for supper.
A bad day, you said. You needed a soak.
Your last words
as you breezed past me.
Moments later the bathtub faucet came on
an army of water pouring out
marching through your windpipe
and seizing your soul.
With a shaky hand, I twisted the doorknob.
You, in your work suit
overturned in the overflowing mess,
and I dropped to my knees
and shrieked like a dying hawk.
A week after, I stand to face the bathroom mirror,
glaringly memorizing my pale complexion.
Flicking away the tears
Rolling
down my raw red cheeks.
I touch the limp strands of hair
clinging to my face like refrigerator magnets.
Vodka oozing from my skin,
the soles of my feet black as the coffin they buried you in.
With a jagged fingernail, I scrape
the dirt from my face leaving a trail of pink skin beneath the scum.
I want to scour the dead cell layers,
the grease, the grime.
But you died in that white coffin.
I walk around to the backyard and twist the hose faucet
until icy water spews from the metal mouth
down my frail legs and back.
Goosebumps rise over my body and I gasp
from the shock of cold, the icy hands,
stinging my back
taking my breath away.
– Annie McCormick
Annie holds a Bachelors degree in Creative Writing with a specialization in Poetry from Ohio University.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
2:41 AM
We sat in a sun-stained booth
nibbling at lo mein noodles, and I
swallowed whatever ridiculous thoughts I could’ve spewed
to cure the disease that is vibrating silence –
like the story behind
the invention of doughnuts;
for some reason, that struck me
as something so significant that I felt
I had to tell you, had to bring it up,
but I never got the chance.
Squirming in the passenger seat,
I adjusted my position, crossing my legs and
staring at the sky for dear life;
my skinny fingers gripped the seat tightly,
imagining the windshield disintegrating
to mingle with that bleak, lonely-heart hue –
give a kiss and reassure
that you were being honest.
French manicures, eye paint,
and luxuriating in small talk over
chocolate delights
led into the moment when I noticed
my stomach pressing against my ribs
and I breathed ever harder,
staring out the blurred window –
it was so hard to concentrate
on distant train whistles and clutching my peace of mind
when I felt as though I could burst
into every piece I didn’t want you to see.
Driving home in the gray,
we were even less open than before;
your sleepless eyes focused ahead,
a tilted-head songbird
dispersing notes, stabbing the quiet
with self-isolating precision.
Clasped Tightly
the moon swam in
sticky shadows, tar ghosts
shivering against our backs,
and I tapped my fingers in
river rhythms to remind
your pulse of its
purpose.
High School
The tiles of the floor encase me
in scuffed beiges and pencil
smudges; pity there aren’t
cheat sheets for life tucked
in-between the cracks. All that
I can see are quadratic equations
and love notes in looping cursive,
telling me that this place is
no longer where I want to be.
April 2, 2009
We sat in the dark,
munching on popcorn on napkins
(with more kernels than not),
dark soda fizzing in
red plastic cups,
and Charlie Chaplin
blown out of an Alaskan cabin
on the television.
– Sarah Marchant
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Disturbed
They say I am mildly disturbed
I stay awake at night, have paranoid visions
Have no girlfriend, nothing
I scratch my head for no apparent reason
I talk to myself and laugh in mid-sentence
They say I am mildly disturbed
Like blue detergent flushing
Down a toilet bowl
I am not mildly disturbed
But I feel like a prisoner in concrete walls
I wish I had a friend I could talk to
I think that would make a difference
I wish I lived in a community
That was concerned about my welfare
A farm or something, and we could work together
And I don’t like carrying guns anymore
And I don’t even like rock n’ roll anymore
I have permanently turned off my television
Because I’m convinced it’s giving me cancer
I don’t really like machines that run on
Electricity, gasoline or other resources
Except my coffeemaker, I am a coffee addict
It’s getting out of control
If I was having sex every night
I would stop drinking coffee
Attention ladies, I like most of you
I would like to have a relationship with you
You can be the dictator every once in awhile
Let’s reproduce in the name of the anti-corporate regime
Let’s never make love in public places
Let’s burn all the porno houses down
And blow up every satellite dish
Together, we can put an end to sodomy
I Love You
My grandmother said, “I love you” on the phone
Every time we talked
After she was diagnosed with dementia
More times than I can count
More than any lover
More than any friend
She wanted those words to linger
Long after memory was erased
These days my grandmother
Doesn’t know who I am
She stares at me
As though I’m a stranger
Come to ransack the place
As a child, I imagined this world
As my permanent home
I had no idea we could
Travel to other places
Even disappear
Even while alive
I just want to say, “Thank you,” Grandma
My gratitude is immeasurable
For the comforts you provided
Just by smiling
I miss you so much it hurts
– Miles Liss
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
The lace was frayed at the edges
worn and old – yellow like the
books you were so very fond of
You had rubbed at the needlework,
running your fingers across the
embroidered lilies; your hands—
clammy and cold, had pinched
those petals; plucking them as if
they had been Real
I had mended your garden,
each time you came to me;
red faced, puffy cheeked,
tearful over the mess that
You had made, yet telling
Me to fix it – please
My eyes can no longer hold
the needle, thin and silver,
which you had watched –
enamored, as it swam
between the eyelets
I am too old, too liver spotted,
too wrinkled and grey –
and you, you’ve grown too
big, for the false flowers I had
sewn so long ago; You, the garden,
are Gone
– Alice Linn
